Songs of the Land
by Tahimikamaxtli
Summary: The tales of Valoran are as varied and as numerous as the stars in the night sky. Here, there is a collection of only a select few stories that have been recorded in order to pass on the history of a land that is as magical as those who walk over it...
1. Beneath the Touch of Starlight

Beneath the Touch of Starlight:

It was nighttime in Demacia, and Sona sat alone on a smooth wooden bench in one of the many parks of the capital. She sat nearly motionless, looking up morosely at the silver stars that twinkled high above her and plucking distractedly at the strings to her etwahl as she did. There was a small, somewhat sad frown on her face as she listened to the quiet sound of her music as it faded away into the darkness overhead. All around her, the park was empty, and it was as silent as could be, save for the soft sound of the summer night and that of her absentminded playing.

She had sought solace after a particularly lonely night by herself, and – once she had donned a modest, pale blue nightgown – she had slipped out of the Buvelle estate in search of something to help take her mind off of her loneliness. Though Demacia Proper was a far cry from the humble cities of Ionia, the parks of the city were – perhaps unsurprisingly, upon her second thought – remarkably well-kept, and they reminded Sona pleasantly enough of her homeland; whenever she had felt lonely back in the orphanage, she had found that walking through the many nearby gardens had helped to calm her nerves tremendously.

And right now, she needed all the help she could get.

It was only her first month in Demacia – in the care of a stranger who insisted Sona call her "Mother" – and she was still getting used to her new home, to put it lightly. Though she did not doubt Lestara Buvelle's intentions, Sona had been woefully unprepared for the drastic change it had been moving from a humble adoption house in Ionia to the very heart of Demacia; though she had already spent the past year teaching herself the Common Tongue in preparation, the past weeks had been little more than a veritable whirlwind of color and perfume: Lady Buvelle had insisted she accompany her almost every night to lavish parties and extravagant balls, where Sona had then been pulled into multiple different directions by curious hands. She had been introduced to far too many people for her to ever hope to reasonably be expected to keep track of, and it almost gave her a headache to try to remember each person now. It seemed as though every noble in Demacia had wanted to meet the enigmatic, quiet, 15-year-old Ionian girl who had been adopted without preamble into one of the oldest and most prominent Demacian families.

Sona had never been much good in large crowds, and the memory alone of the past week did little to help her agitation now; ever since she was a child, she had always been unnaturally attuned to the emotions of those around her, and her connection with the mysterious instrument that never left her side only seemed to foster her abilities: at times, she felt as though she could change the emotions of others merely through her music, but such an influence also meant that she was doubly as sensitive to their emotions. She shared in the experience of their emotions, and though there was an Ionian word for those with a gift such as hers – _izuki_ , which roughly translated to "open heart" – knowing what she was did little to further help her understand her abilities.

At times, it was a pleasant gift – being able to share in the same adoring praise that Lestara lavished her with – but far more often – such as when she had unwillingly shared in the suffering and the pain of the other orphans like her – it was a gift that she would have much rather have gone without. And even after such a short time in Demacia, she had already realized just how different the people were from Ionians: while the emotions of her countrymen were for the most part calm, Demacians seemed to lack the same appreciation for balance: far too often, Sona would find herself laughing along to some loud nobleman one second, only to be sobbing hysterically with a noblewoman the next. She could do little against the flood of foreign emotions that crashed against her – whenever she tried, it was like trying to ignore the sound of her own mental voice. It was such a confusing and ever-shifting rush of emotions that Sona hardly knew anymore at any given moment what she _should_ feel in the first place.

Such experiences were the reason that she now preferred to stay in her room for much of the day, coming out only at night when the rest of the estate was already fast asleep. Nighttime had quickly become her favorite time of day, and her midnight strolls were now what she looked forward to the most. Thankfully, at such late hours, there were few others out on the streets – save the occasional couple, whose infatuation with one another Sona could feel like a hearth fire when she passed them – and she was relatively free from any drastic changes in emotions.

As it were, she was about as calm as she figured she would be, and Sona sat in a comfortable silence – a silence that was suddenly and unceremoniously broken.

"You play beautifully."

Sona's stomach did a somersault of surprise, and the chord she had been in the middle of strumming came to a discordant end. She spun in the direction that the unexpected voice had come from, her heart pounding with fear as she clutched her etwahl to her breast.

"Forgive me if I startled you," came the voice again, this time kindly and apologetic. "That was not my intention, I assure you."

Sona narrowed her eyes at the spot where she was now certain the voice had come from, though she could make out little as a result of the darkness. A moment later, a young man – whom she guessed to be in his early 20's – stepped out of the darkness of the surrounding trees and into the pale glow of the moonlight.

He was dressed in what she had come to recognize as the dark blue uniform of a soldier, but he looked nothing the part: his face was as smooth and well-sculpted as a marble statue, and his eyes were of such a deep blue that they looked almost purple. He had surprisingly long chocolate-brown hair that looked feather soft to the touch, and though he was clearly well-built, he was nothing like the almost hulking, brutishly-large soldiers Sona had been introduced to before. Despite the apparent stiffness of his uniform, he moved with a surprising grace – as though he were a dancer, and not a soldier.

"I was passing through when I heard you playing," he continued by way of explanation, and Sona's attention was pulled away from his appearance and to the surprisingly melodic quality of his voice. "For a moment, I was unsure whether or not I was dreaming – I have never heard such striking music before; it was as though the stars themselves were singing."

Sona flushed slightly, feeling her cheeks heat suddenly at the unexpectedly high praise of his words. The man stepped a fraction closer.

"My name is Taric," he said with an elegant bow. "May I ask yours?"

It was a question that Sona had heard too many times to remember, and it was one that she was never fond of answering; resting her etwahl on her lap, she shook her head sadly, gesturing to her throat and her mouth in a pantomime of silence. For a moment, Taric did not seem to understand, and he frowned in confusion at her movements. After several more seconds, however, realization dawned across his face, and he looked horrorstruck at himself.

"Forgive me, miss," he said, dipping his head respectfully so as to avoid meeting her eyes. His voice was tight with self-mortification, and he cleared his throat. "I did not know that…"

He seemed unable to bring himself to say it, and he looked back up at Sona as though expecting her to be thunderstruck. Suffice to say, she was used to people assuming her silence for nothing more than shyness, and the past weeks in particular had seen her replying with more venom with each new noble who mistook her for merely bashful. Taric, however, looked so mortified and earnestly remorseful that Sona felt a stab of pity for the man in front of her.

Strumming her instrument brightly in an effort to cheer him up, she shrugged as apologetically as she could. Taric's spirits seemed to lift slightly – Sona had made an effort with her music to bolster his mood – though he still looked somewhat ashamed.

With a reassuring smile, she mouthed her own name as best she could, taking the time to be as obvious as possible. Taric's brow furrowed slightly in concentration, and it was several seconds of silence before he ventured a guess.

"Sona?" he said hesitantly, and she nodded with a grin. He looked so relieved to have guessed correctly that Sona giggled soundlessly.

"May I join you, Sona?" he asked chivalrously, and Sona nodded, sliding sideways on the wooden bench so as to make room for him. He sat down to her left, and Sona was surprised to find that he smelled like wet stones and honeysuckle.

"If I may be so foolhardy as to assume something else," he began after a moment, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. "You are not Demacian, are you?"

Sona shook her head and Taric took his time before continuing: "Ionian?"

Sona was slightly taken aback that he had guessed correctly, and she nodded.

"I thought so." He brushed his hair back with his left hand in what she assumed could only be out of habit. "I have not had the good fortune of meeting many Ionians, but those who I have have always proven to be lovely people."

And then, to her surprise, he spoke suddenly in the most common of the many Ionian dialects: "'And the rain falls ever onward over the land of flowers and beauty.'"

He glanced at Sona once he had finished, grinning shamefacedly at the wonderstruck expression on her face.

"I do hope I did not butcher it too recklessly," he admitted, and she shook her head vigorously. "Ionian is such a beautiful language that it would be a shame; it was a dream of mine as a boy to read the works of Guyan Sho as they were originally written, and some years ago, I taught myself to speak it as best I could. Though I fear without anyone with which to converse, it has grown rather rusty since that time."

Sona shook her head again; it had been so long since she had heard anyone speak Ionian that hearing Taric speak it – albeit with a notable Demacian accent – was like being back home again. She strummed her fingers happily across her etwahl in an effort to display her happiness, and Taric smiled at the gesture.

"That is a beautiful instrument," he said, nodding toward the etwahl in her lap. "Though I must confess that I have never seen one like it. Which is not to say it does not sound lovely," he added quickly, and Sona giggled. "Have you spent long learning it?"

Sona nodded. _All my life_ , she mouthed, and Taric nodded slowly to show that he had understood her.

"Well, it certainly shows," he said, and Sona dipped her head in a mock curtsy. As she did, she noticed that he was holding something in his right hand. Upon a closer look, she realized that it was a small leather-bound book, as well as a short black pencil. She cast a questioning look at the book, looking back up at Taric to make sure that he caught her attention. Following her gaze, Taric look down at the items in his hand. To her surprise, he looked sheepish – like a child caught with candy – and he rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand.

"If I tell you, will you promise to keep it a secret?" he asked. Feeling cheeky, Sona mimed zipping her mouth closed and locking it. Taric flushed slightly in embarrassment at the gesture, though he gave her a shaky grin as she winked.

"To tell you the truth, I was writing poetry when I heard you playing," he admitted. "On nights like these, when I find myself unable to sleep, I like to take walks to clear my head. I always bring along my journal in case inspiration strikes me, and it has many times."

Feeling her interest piqued, Sona looked expectantly at the small book.

"Would you like me to read you one?" guessed Taric, reading her expression, and she nodded. He sighed. "I suppose it is only fair, given how callous I was regarding your name." And he looked at her with such a convincing expression of mock sternness that she almost laughed. "Though only one: after all, it is not decent for a young lady like yourself to be listening to poetry from a strange man at such a late hour."

Sona grinned, and Taric smiled at her expression. Opening his journal to a page of his choice and holding it before him, he cleared his throat:

" _You are the color of the summer afternoon,_

 _Of the bright sun,_

 _And the warm breeze_

 _That kisses my skin,_

 _Like I kiss your sweet lips._

 _But when we close our eyes,_

 _You are the color of the summer evening,_

 _Dark and warm and sweet,_

 _Bright like the sound of crickets,_

 _And sharp like cool wine._ "

When he had finished, he closed his journal and looked modestly at Sona. She clapped prettily, and Taric brushed his hair back nervously with one hand.

"They're just scribbles, really," he said modestly. "I'm certainly no poet by any stretch of the imagination."

Sona shook her head vehemently at his self-deprecation, and he smiled gratefully.

"I am humbled you think otherwise," he said, with a little bow of his own. When he raised his head once more, he looked up at the moon. "Though I would love to spend the remainder of the night sharing my poetry with someone as lovely as yourself, I really should be getting back to the barracks." He stood, and as he did, he offered his hand to her. "And it would be dishonorable for me to leave such a lady alone in the witching hour – please allow me to accompany you home."

With a gracious smile, Sona slipped her slender fingers into his palm, and with a firm but gentle pressure, he lifted her effortlessly to her feet. He offered his arm with a cheeky smile, and Sona grinned as she slipped hers through his.

"Lead on, my lady," he said, and Sona set off slowly in the direction of the Buvelle estate. It was nearly an hour before they arrived before the wrought iron gates of Starsong, Sona being completely at ease to walk as leisurely as she liked. All the while, Taric had been commenting on the various objects that had caught his attention as they walked – the reflection of the moon on a nearby shop window, the pale blue wings of a butterfly that had fluttered across their path, the soft petals of a blooming Midnight Glory – and Sona had been more than content to listen in silence to his poetic words. Once they arrived at their destination, however, Taric looked taken aback, glancing between the massive estate in front of him, and at the young woman on his arm.

"My dear, are you sure we are in the right place?" he asked quietly, as though afraid someone would hear. "This is the Buvelle manor, after all."

Sona nodded reassuringly, pulling her arm out of his. She moved nimbly to the gates, showing that she could open them with her key to settle his doubts. Once she had, Taric swallowed nervously, looking up at the imposing gates, and at the impressive silhouette of the mansion in the distance.

"Lady Buvelle is a legendary musician," he muttered, almost to himself. "I should have guessed that…" His voice trailed off, and he shook his head as though to collect his thoughts. "I had no idea I was in the presence of nobility. Not that your bearing was anything short of noble," he added quickly, and Sona smiled at his apparent nervousness.

"Perhaps one day I should have the good fortune to attend one of your concerts," he said, taking her hand and kissing the top of it softly. "It would be my absolute pleasure to hear you play again."

Sona smiled as warmly as she could, and she gestured to his journal. Taric looked down at it as though he were unaware of its existence.

"Perhaps one day, I shall come to visit you, and I can read you more of them," he said, and Sona nodded her approval. He smiled, and he bowed as elegantly as any noble she had met, his eyes sparking like stars.

"Until then, Sona Buvelle."


	2. Annoucement

So, after what is now probably months of inactivity, I have finally decided to begin my long-planned rehauling of all of my stories. I have been rather discontented with Riot's apparent lore directions, so I've constructed my own headcanon universe that I intend to stick to. What this entails is that I'm going to go through everything old of mine (outside of the original Follow the Wind, which shall remain untouched for sentimental reasons) and edit/rewrite what I can. The process is going to be pretty ruthless, so expect to see some stories/shorts disappear and not come back, as some of them no longer fit into my new headcanon. Most of them should be back relatively quickly without change, but I plan on rereading and re-editing everything regardless. I do hope to be a lot more active from now on, though, if that is any consolation.

Also, check out my Tumblr if you'd like (at, unoriginally, "Tahimikamaxtli") since I'm pretty active on there.


	3. Fairer Fortunes

Fairer Fortunes:

Sarah Fortune was cleaning her guns when she heard the knock at her door.

She paused, one hand resting on the cool metal of Shock's barrel, and the other holding a thin gun brush. Her mother had taught her the importance of gun maintenance as a child, and it was a lesson she had not forgotten. She had heard the stories of men who had lost their lives because of a jammed gun, and she had no intention of joining their ranks anytime soon. Slowly, Sarah let her right hand fall, setting the brush down onto her desk as she leaned back slightly in her chair and waited.

She permitted only a handful of her crew to disturb her while she was in her study, and never for anything less than the most urgent news. She kept her eyes trained on the polished wood of the doors, and it was only when the knock came a second time that she stood. The legs of her chair dragged against the smooth wooden floors as she tucked her pistols safely into her belt.

"Enter."

Tall, dark-skinned, and covered in tattoos, Rafen had to stoop slightly so as not to knock his head against the doorframe as he entered. His dark eyes glanced at her and then at the floor as he dipped his head slightly.

"Captain."

"What is it, Rafen?" asked Sarah, tapping one finger against the polished stock of the gun at her hip.

"A ship, Captain. To the west."

Sarah snorted.

"A single ship? Sink it and bring me anything of value." She turned away, hips swaying slightly as she walked to the stained-glass doors that led to the balcony. "And next time, don't bother me about it."

"It's the _Fair Fortune_ , Captain."

Sarah froze.

"Calico?" she asked, without turning around.

"Aye, Captain."

"What does that Demacian bastard want?"

"I don't know, Captain. He's anchored in the shallows to the west."

Sarah pushed open the stained-glass doors with a single motion, and the summer heat rushed in like the tide, ruffling her hair as she narrowed her eyes against the brilliant sun. Below her, the golden sands and emerald green waters of Lover's Rest stretched around her like riches. The island had originally belonged to some Noxian noble or other, but Sarah had wanted it. So she had taken it, fashioning it into her stronghold, and her central base of operations. A large portion of her fleet was anchored within its various caves and beaches, and her own ship – the _Syren_ – was safely hidden away in her private docks.

She waited until her eyes adjusted to the sunlight before plucking the small spyglass that hung from her belt and fitting it to her eye. There, some ways to the west, bobbing lazily in the azure waters, was a ship that she could never mistake.

The _Fair Fortune_ was quite possibly the fastest ship in Valoran – faster, even, than the _Syren_ – and its elegant gold-and-red hull cut an impressive figure among the waves. It belonged to Calico Rovineau, a smuggler who was somehow even more famous than his own ship. Born into a wealthy Demacian family known for its ships, his life in the lap of luxury had been cut short once his father had found out that Calico's mother had been seduced by a passing rogue. It was only her affections for her son that had kept him alive long enough to escape the wrath of his father, and he stolen the flagship of his family's fleet – the fastest built in a generation – and rechristened it the _Fair Fortune_.

Sarah lowered the spyglass, her expression unreadable as she looked out at the distant ship.

"Your orders, Captain?" asked Rafen uncertainly, after several minutes of silence.

Sarah hooked the spyglass back onto her belt, though her eyes never moved away from the _Fair Fortune_.

"Let him through. Let's see what the cat dragged in today."

It was almost an hour later before Sarah stood at the docks, motionless as her and Calico's men alike unloaded chest after chest of treasure. Her coat hung around her shoulders, and her arms were crossed over her chest. The feathers in her hat quivered in the breeze like sails. Rafen stood to her left, watching as the last of the treasure was finally unloaded. The two of them watched as a final figure disembarked from the _Fair Fortune_ , tall and thin, and wearing an elaborate coat to match Sarah's. Sarah's men eyed the figure warily, hands hovering near pistols as he sauntered to where Sarah stood, a small, personal chest tucked under one arm.

Calico paused just before Sarah, removing his own hat with a flourish and bowing exaggeratedly before her.

"You're looking as lovely as ever, Cherry," he said with a roguish grin.

Calico was tall – though nowhere near as tall as Rafen – and he had fair skin that was handsomely tanned. Though he had a dark, neatly-trimmed beard, his hair was a sandy-blond that fell nearly to his shoulders. His eyes were two different colors – one a rich, emerald green, and the other an ocean blue – and it was this mismatched appearance of his that had given him his nickname. Though Sarah suspected that he had chosen the name for himself – just like he had been the first to call her "Miss Fortune."

"Calico," replied Sarah stiffly.

The smuggler's face fell, and he looked almost comically hurt.

"Is that any way to greet an old friend?" he asked, gesturing behind him. "Especially when I come bearing gifts?"

"We'll see about these 'gifts' of yours, Calico," said Sarah, uncrossing her arms so she could place one hand on her hip. "But in the meantime, why are you here?"

"I wanted to see you, Cherry," said Calico, reaching out a hand to her.

Sarah caught it before he could touch her, holding him fast by the wrist. For a moment, she held his gaze before she glanced at the small chest under his arm.

"What's in the chest?"

Calico sighed.

"As see you're as determined as ever to ignore my advances," he said with a sad shake of his head. "But if you must know, it is a little trinket I pulled out a shipwreck off the coast of that godforsaken icicle they call the Freljord. Rakkoran, if I had to guess."

"Rakkoran?"

"Aye." Calico shrugged. "But what would I know? I am simply a humble merchant trying to earn a living amongst cutthroats and thieves."

"Enough jokes, Calico," snapped Sarah. "We'll talk inside." She turned to Rafen. "Make sure the rest of his crew is rested and fed."

Rafen nodded.

"Aye, Captain."

Sarah glanced back at Calico.

"Come on. Let's have a closer look at this trinket of yours."


End file.
